


The Art of Letting Go

by rabbitprint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Memory, Memory Loss, Mentors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28210641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: Set pre-game through Heavensward, spoilers through MSQ 5.3. Elidibus and Unukalhai.In the long millennia since Amaurot's fall, Elidibus has nurtured spies and betrayers. He has learned how to twist his skills for negotiation into brazen lies, tossing aside any pawn too stubborn to be easily corralled. He has tenderly reared entire revolutions from whispers into outright war -- but he does not know what to do with a boy who has already consigned himself to hopelessness, for that was all that the Thirteenth had taught its children before finally devouring them whole.
Relationships: Elidibus & Unukalhai (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	The Art of Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> _Prompt from anon: "For your October prompts, if you have time I’d like to request a story with Elidibus inadvertently becoming a surrogate father figure to Unukalhai… and Unukalhai becoming a surrogate son to Elidibus at the same time. So Elidibus didn’t mean to bond, and bonding complicates things for him, but it’s there. Maybe details like Unukalhai adopting Elidibus’ mannerisms?"_

The boy's soul calls to him more brightly than anything else on the Thirteenth.  
  
It outshines even the glacial walls which Igeyorhm had summoned in a last, desperate attempt to hold back the void. Massive cliffs claw towards the charred sky, ragged stalagmites which shudder as the monsters on the other side slam their bodies into them, shrieking in frustration. Ice bears a natural inclination towards stasis; even though Igeyorhm does not specialize in the use of an Umbral polarity, it is close enough to Light to serve as a barrier against the Darkness that sweeps across the shard. She had thrown herself into holding this final line, refusing to back down -- seeking, ironically, to save the very people she had been so intent on exterminating only a short while ago, before the balance had tipped.  
  
The walls have already broken. They splinter further with each moment, shattering even as the Ascians work frantically behind the limited cover they provide. Igeyorhm is not among them now; they had managed to wrestle her free from the bulwark before she could follow the reflection into its own demise, willing to burn her own aether dry if it could somehow restore the shard's.  
  
The Thirteenth is a horror of melting color as its distorted souls seek to pull aether down from the very sky, funneling firestorms from the heavens into cyclones directed towards their fanged maws. They drag themselves upon bloated bellies, intent only on slaking the starvation which ravages their bodies. They snatch up their smaller kin and devour them too, swallowing the struggling, twisted lives whole. Leathery throats bulge as their prey slips further down their gullets, clawing at the meat of their final coffins.  
  
The similarities to Amaurot shake Elidibus more than he would like to admit. He knows better than to think that Igeyorhm would have recreated the Final Days on purpose. Not consciously. But that destruction is in _everything_ they conjure now, stitched into the basic building blocks of their own imaginations -- and so they remake their own tragedies unconsciously over and over, caught in endless repetition as if hoping they can find the way out far too late. It has been so deeply scarred into them that everything they do now cries with the same harmonies: an orchestra that reuses the same three instruments, for all the other musicians are dead.   
  
Igeyorhm herself is safe, at least. Emet-Selch is keeping her company on the reflection's moon, watching over her to make certain that she will not fling herself directly into the vortex. Lahabrea had pushed her into their Architect's arms and then had promptly turned around to dive straight back into the chaos, caught in the race to recover what little they can before the reflection is finally extinguished.   
  
Elidibus had already managed to pick out a few survivors of his own -- an archer, a woman clinging to a massive broadsword, a healer with both eyes pierced and bleeding -- before this soul had called him, its light rising like a pillar slicing through the gloom. He had fought his way through the winged, chittering remnants of a village to find a boy dying in the remains of monsters melting all around him, a broken staff sparking as its aether petered out.  
  
There is dirt all over the fledgling mage's face, obscuring the immature, child-soft outlines of his features. Elidibus crouches beside him, rolling the boy's head to the side. His thumb smears blood in a sticky arc across one cheek.  
  
"Do you pray for salvation?" he asks: the same question that has been presented to all the others.   
  
The child's lips part, his breath barely a croak of noise. Elidibus watches intently for any sign of reply.   
  
But the boy's spirit flickers before he can provide any tangible answer, and then the lids of his eyes droop closed as he begins to slip the rest of the way into death.   
  
Elidibus frowns.   
  
He reaches down, fingers swimming through the aether of the boy's corporal form, dabbling like minnows hungry to nibble clean the ribs of the drowned. Like a chirurgeon, he pares away the rotting flesh to keep it from further infecting the healthy tissues -- and parts the boy's soul from his body, carrying it away before it can perish as well.

* * *

The child's soul recovers slowly, which gives Elidibus plenty of time to consider what to do next.   
  
But it _does_ recover, which is encouraging; some part of the boy has not given up yet, even if it only may be surviving out of sluggish habit. His is a spirit which has been fighting for so long that it does not know entirely when to stop. Even when it has been stripped away from its physical aether, it insists on the validity of its own life, building the outlines of a face and form to provide a new cage for the soul within.  
  
A good sign.  
  
Like the other members of the Convocation, Elidibus keeps a few personal bolt-holes in the rift, places where he can retreat to and work on his projects -- safely away from the shards and any Warriors of Light who might come to interfere. The moons are far too popular for his taste; _everyone_ wants to claim one as their own personal vantage spot to brood. If Elidibus were to store his agents in any one of them, Lahabrea would discover them in a heartbeat, and reuse them as his own raw materials.  
  
He keeps the child in a spare pocket in the rift instead, and waits patiently to see what manner of creature this neophyte mage might turn out to be.   
  
Like brush kindling a flame, Elidibus feeds the foundling's spirit with aether in slow amounts, gathering fresh dollops from new shards. Luckily enough for the both of them, it is not strictly necessary for a soul to require corporeal aether to house it. Many of the mortal agents which the Ascians have used so far have been divided from their physical bodies, for one reason or another. Their minds project familiar shapes for them, granting them flesh and hair and skin, incorporeal aether turned towards a different purpose. It is draining for the soul to repurpose its aether in such a fashion, naturally, and the cost is not small. Such efforts leave one vulnerable to attack -- particularly for those within Zodiark's service.  
  
But it remains a shock, to be ripped from the shell of one's physical form, feeling its connections severed as your senses are blotted out one by one. Elidibus has already experienced it more times than he would ever wish to count. To remember how to see without eyes, to speak without a tongue: these are not things which a person normally knows how to perform without a body. It can take some practice.   
  
The energies slowly congeal around the pearl of the child's soul, which drinks it up as greedily as a voidkin; the boy must have been malnourished in more ways than one throughout the duration of his entire life. Once there is enough aether to consider the boy's consciousness as stable, Elidibus pulls away the stasis magicks, and watches his latest acquisition stir back to wakening.  
  
The child jerks his eyes open, sitting up, and -- miraculously -- does not scream.  
  
To his credit, the boy continues to sit quietly through the bulk of Elidibus's explanation. If not for the occasional blink and nod, Elidibus would wonder if anything he was saying had been understood at all; they both have the use of the Echo, so it cannot simply be a matter of language. Mere translations alone do not convey complex explanations with them, however. Perhaps the words he used were too esoteric.   
  
But -- more than that -- the boy's solemnity _is_ perplexing. All of the other victims which Elidibus had recovered from the Thirteenth had been lost in their own emotions, as if rage alone might have preserved them even as the aether was gnawed from their still-living bodies. They had screamed. Wept. A number of them had refused outright to cooperate, which made matters convenient for both sides; no wasted time on pointless negotiations, simply another fragment to dump back into the Lifestream and move on.  
  
"If you accept leaving the remains of your shard behind, then you may join me under the name of Unukalhai," he finally concludes, uncertain if he should be bemused or irritated by the silence. "Else, we may end matters here."  
  
The boy is bright enough to recognize that it is finally his turn to speak, or else risk having the decision made for him. He takes a deep breath.  
  
"Is there aught that I can even accomplish now, when I am already dead?"  
  
It is a remarkably mature question to come from a hyur of his years, but Elidibus knows what it is like to stand before the odds when you are young, and seek to prove yourself. It ages you early; it trains you to perform on a stage of bravado and terror, throwing yourself into decisions when you do not know yet how to even survive them. It isolates you, warning you that you cannot admit to the simplest inadequacies within yourself, lest your peers believe you to be entirely incapable. You cannot ask for help. You must be able to take action, even when your limited experience may be the very thing that snaps the trap shut upon your heels.  
  
As he regards the boy before him, Elidibus realizes something else, something he had not expected to see in a creature so fragile. So _mortal_. This child -- no, this _Warrior_ \-- has been fighting so hard on his own for every bell of his existence. It is wrong to treat him as inexperienced in matters as simple as death.  
  
Even so, it would be a luxury for Elidibus to speak freely. He cannot afford to, least of all to one of Hydaelyn's own.  
  
"The condition of what we may call your life is... complicated." Folding his arms, Elidibus sorts quickly through what he can share by means of an explanation. "The physical aether of the form you were born with is gone by now. Devoured by the very people you wished to defend, I imagine. The incorporeal aether of your soul, however, remains intact -- and your memories have come with it. That suffices."  
  
He does not wish to say more, and -- thankfully enough -- the boy does not quibble over the details, showing an encouraging degree of mental acuity as he proceeds to his next question. "Why did you rescue me?"  
  
"I did not yet hear your answer." Elidibus inclines his head, curious if all his waiting will culminate in little more than a hasty rejection. Others have done so, spitting fury and grief in their demands to be delivered to death on the spot. Others have been up-front about their uselessness. "You can make it now, if you wish. Do you pray for salvation?"  
  
He watches the roiling light of the fallen Warrior's soul, the color of it rippling to every fingertip and toe: weak, even for a fragment.  
  
Weak -- but still refusing death.  
  
Yet there is no glimmer of hope amidst that turmoil -- no shining _faith_ that might rally even the most despondent Warrior to act, and Elidibus finds he cannot predict what this boy might do next.  
  
After another moment, the boy bows his head, fists trembling as they tighten at his sides. "There is nothing _to_ save," he announces at last. Remarkably, his voice only wavers a little. Any tears must have simply run dry, exhausted so long ago that even instinct does not call them back. "No amount of blood I spilled could aid my world, nor did it change the minds of our own champions. Driven mad by the very tools we hoped would save us from the Darkness, our own people fed upon each other. I could not --"   
  
He breaks off, choking his way through his words as if they are thorns which snag on the soft lining of his throat. "I could not convince them to find peace instead. To _help_ each other, instead of tearing out one another's hearts. We should _never_ have fought like that. But none of my words encouraged them to unite. To find harmony. To _end_ that dissent of loved ones against loved ones, families against themselves."  
  
Despite himself, Elidibus frowns.   
  
He could kill the boy now. This fallen Warrior is empty, scoured of any banner to rally beneath. He would not put up much of a fight, even if he tries to struggle.  
  
But to perish like _this_ , of all ways: believing that you had failed to hold your people together against the disharmony that had devoured them, watching them turn upon one another in quarreling and infighting. Seeing only the shame of seeing something you loved so dearly willingly degrade itself. To know your people were _better_ than they were behaving, that they _should_ be better. That it was by their own hands that they brought themselves low, and your responsibility to have saved them from it.  
  
It is a terrible way to die.  
  
Elidibus breaks himself out of the memory with a shudder. No. The boy deserves a chance, at least. An opportunity to rekindle his hope, before Elidibus can properly determine how to allocate him as a pawn.   
  
"I have spoken of the other shards." With an imperious flick of his hand, he draws the boy's attention back to him. "There are realms where the Ascians have yet to claim dominion. Hydaelyn's champions are stronger in those lands. The struggle there is not so futile. There, you may yet make a difference."  
  
The Warrior does not immediately leap to an agreement. The lambent colors of the rift stroke their ghostly fingers across his face, drenching him in cold violets like a levinstorm.   
  
"You are also an Ascian, no?" Fearless in the manner of those who have already lost everything else, the boy turns his pale eyes up to Elidibus, regarding him with shrewd suspicion. "Your mask is enough indication of your allegiance. So often, I heard of your kind's foul workings against us. Why should I believe the words of the very people who led my world to its ruin?"  
  
With an inward sigh, Elidibus stretches out his hand with his palm up, fingers lax in crooked arcs. Aether gathers in a slow swirl in the air as he strings together the pattern of a circle, and then a sphere, geometry unfolding from a flat plane into dimensions of volume and mass. Lines thicken into curves. It is a bauble of blue and green and gold, ridged with beaches and lush forests, tiny mountains capped with dustings of frost and snow.  
  
Once the miniature world is complete, Elidibus suspends it neatly in the air between them, where it spins lazily like a living ornament with its own light.  
  
"There is a _difference_ between a shard whose aether is brought back to the Source, and one whose substance is so ravaged that it can never be restored. To float starving and alone in the rift, _never_ to be revived again. The few surviving souls made into mockeries of who they were before, distorted into new forms which know only a single purpose -- a basic hunger." In illustration, he reaches out, placing a fingertip upon the sphere's equator as it rotates; the light pressure gouges a dark, bleeding gout in the star's surface, like an infant shoving their fist into the frosting of a cake.  
  
With a sweep of his hand, Elidibus then catches and crushes the marred sphere, strangling it out of existence. Its remains glitter out of his fingers, mountains powdered into dust.   
  
"You cannot overcome the Ascians in your current condition," he points out succinctly. "And to triumph over us is not as simple as the fate of a single battle. A shard whose balance has tipped is a loss for both sides. The Lifestream dries up. Its souls wither on empty banks. You must prevent that condition _before_ you can even hope to stop the loss of the shard itself."  
  
Opening his fingers, Elidibus shakes off the remaining crumbs like rubbish. "I will not stay my hand from ushering in a Rejoining," he warns. "But when two armies clash, they ruin the very land they seek to wrestle from one another, tearing it beneath their boots and convoys. That land _needs_ a champion to ensure that it remains protected too. Tell me, would you be willing to work alongside one of your greatest foes if it means you have a chance to prevent the true danger -- the _true_ death of a world -- from happening? Would you become a Warrior of Light once more, and protect what is otherwise defenseless?"  
  
There. _That_ would surely be enough. All of Elidibus's words are honest; they are, however, skewed, as they must be in order to become palatable to one of Hydaelyn's chosen. Offer any number of helpless, ignorant victims to a hero, and they will inevitably leap into an abyss, even if they must deceive themselves with the promise of treasures at the bottom in order to do it.  
  
But no anticipated spark of life kindles within the boy, who regards Elidibus steadily as if he is simply another breed of voidkin, one dressed in white and eloquence. "And would you not destroy that protector, the moment they become inconvenient?" he replies simply, with no bitterness in the question. "To grant me a chance of hope, only to tear it away at the end?"  
  
Elidibus does neither of them the disservice of pretending otherwise. "Mayhap," he acknowledges with a shrug. "But you will not see the end of this road if you do not even begin to walk it."  
  
He has not argued so passionately before on behalf of a sundered mortal; half of him doubts the wisdom of doing so at all, having to convince this fallen Warrior to pick up his weapon and continue the fight. He should let this boy die, this Warrior who has lost all heart. Who -- like him -- could not save his world, but had only been able to hold up his hands and scream, _let me save you from yourselves_.  
  
But he restrains himself from hasty decisions, and thankfully enough, the Warrior makes a reluctant nod.  
  
"I understand," the boy -- Unukalhai, now -- says. "Then, I accept."

* * *

He thinks, at first, that the prospect of playing savior to new worlds might inspire this fallen Warrior after all. So often, the lure of a second chance affects even those deep within the claws of depression. Dangle the possibility of redemption -- or at least, the opportunity to die for a good cause -- and even a half-hearted Warrior's vanity will stir, flinging them towards certain doom so they can call themselves heroes in the end after all.   
  
But even this fresh promise does not stir Unukalhai to passion. Nothing does.  
  
The boy's stoicism never wavers. His spirit is hollow of any spark to warm it. There is something unwaveringly _empty_ inside him, so much so that Elidibus fears that he might have accidentally left something behind of Unukalhai's soul on the Thirteenth after all -- some vital scrap of memory or identity necessary for self-motivation. What remains is no better than an arcane construct summoned to perform a single task: that of mere survival, with no illusions of anything more.  
  
This will do no good, not for either one of them. He has no sense of the boy, and it seems that Unukalhai has lost all sense of himself. A Warrior of Light who is inexperienced enough to have their opinions shaped is a useful tool, brimming with potential -- and yet, there are dozens of them on other reflections which Elidibus can resort to manipulating. Ones he does not have to care for so directly.   
  
He does not know what his options are, if Unukalhai refuses to respond. In his time as Emissary before the Final Days, Elidibus had advised fellow Amaurotines by the dozens; he had tutored many in the arts of mediation and compromise. That had been the extent of his experience as a mentor. He has never reared a child of his own before; the world ended before he ever had a chance.  
  
Instead in the long millennia since, Elidibus has nurtured spies and betrayers. He has learned how to twist his skills for negotiation into brazen lies, tossing aside any pawn too stubborn to be easily corralled. He has tenderly reared entire revolutions from whispers into outright war -- but he does not know what to do with a boy who has already consigned himself to hopelessness, for that was all that the Thirteenth had taught its children before finally devouring them whole.

* * *

He tells himself that he will give the boy only a few chances. One or two, at most. It is a rationalization for how he grants Unukalhai more leeway than he should, tolerating the fallen Warrior's passivity when normally Elidibus would have destroyed him by now as a wasted effort. He has run out of patience far sooner with other heroes, sending them back into the Lifestream like fertilizer dumped into a garden. Once he has the measure of Unukalhai, then Elidibus can properly judge how to assign him for use.  
  
But the boy is asleep most of the time, frozen in stasis; impossible to determine his talents, let alone his nature. Whenever Elidibus brings him out, their meetings are rare and short-lived. There are few opportunities for Unukalhai to demonstrate any particular aptitude for a given situation -- or the desire for one.   
  
The boy shows his maturity in other ways, adapting to his new existence with not a single complaint. He takes to the transition faster than most -- a byproduct of being killed while so young, most likely, before he had too much time to get attached to his own limbs -- and manages, after some careful study, to learn how to channel enough aether for basic spells once more without accidentally draining his own life away. He lacks the foolish questions of others many times his age: _am I to get another body, why can I not possess others as you do, can I become an Ascian as well. Can you make me invisible. Why must I still visit the latrine._ Always turning to the demand for more strength, more _power_ the moment they manage to forget their own demise. As if they serve any purpose to Elidibus as more than mere tokens to place upon a gameboard and then sacrifice on cue.  
  
But the same acuity that Unukalhai had demonstrated during their first meeting has not evaporated, and Elidibus discovers it has not left him entirely meek. After they visit the Tenth for a brief exploration of its coastlines, the boy lingers on the edge of the rift, indifferent to the abyss yawning endlessly beneath him only a step away.   
  
"Do you wish me to focus on magicks?" he asks, frowning as he rubs his fingers over the new staff that Elidibus has fashioned for him. "Or statecraft? Am I to infiltrate the Tenth -- or another location?"  
  
"Observe for now," Elidibus cautions. "Pursue what interests you the most."  
  
In truth, he does not know which shard will bear fruit first. Tending to an unbroken star for eons had left them all complacent; even Elidibus had never truly expected one of its shards to simply _end_ , dropping a world right out of their own hands like a porcelain vase, their vast powers unable to stop it. The Convocation must be more careful with the next ones. Destroying the Thirteenth by corrupting its champions was not a poor plan, on a logistical level. Igeyorhm allowed it to go too far -- but allowing mankind to ruin its own stability is a strategy which they had all agreed to be the most efficient, compared to alternatives. There is no need to present an external adversary when mortals are more than happy to slaughter each other, creating their own excuses and justifications for wholescale murder. Killing an Ascian -- a hated foe of Hydaelyn -- is something all of them would rejoice over.  
  
Even Unukalhai, he reminds himself, watching the boy finish recording the trip's data in a crystal. Even Unukalhai will one day recover his strength, and seek Elidibus's own death.

* * *

He does not have that much time for his newest pet project, of course; there are other pawns Elidibus must cajole, other Ascians to remind of their task. And there is activity on the Fifth that he wishes to attend to, a careful exacerbation of the elements which every Ascian has paused in their labors to watch. The destruction of this particular shard unfolds in the language of hurricanes, shrieking storms which claw at everything they can reach, turning even the smallest stones into lethal missiles and shredding trees in their wake.   
  
This time, they will succeed. The theories are sound. All the Convocation members are gathering in attendance. Only Emet-Selch and Lahabrea are absent, working on the Source in parallel to the Fifth as they collectively test their latest theory: that of mirroring elements, similar windstorms of no lesser fury than the ones which currently dismantle the cities of the Fifth.   
  
Kin to kin. Like, calling to like.   
  
"I will not return for some time," Elidibus tells the boy after they complete a brief visit to the Twelfth shard, long enough to practice Unukalhai's control of thunder magicks. If the efforts to rejoin the shard succeed on the Fifth, the next target will already be in the Convocation's sights. "Thankfully, you will not be conscious of the passage of years while you are asleep. Or of aught else, really. Hold still."   
  
Predictably, a flicker of nervousness darts over the boy's face, even despite how he schools his expression into a forced calm. His eyes skitter to the side, tracking the glow of the aetherial prison that Elidibus draws around him. "And what if another Ascian finds me, master?"  
  
"Then you will likely die without even waking to know of it." Elidibus finishes off the delicate webbing of the preservation wards, and then pauses, offering mildly, "If they _do_ rouse you, however, you have my permission to attempt to kill them."  
  
Unukalhai takes in a fast, deep breath, though he does not allow his fear to reach his voice. "I am no match yet for even the weakest of your forces, master."  
  
"Then it will be a brief battle." Diffident, Elidibus pins the last arc of the spell formula in place, and lifts his hand to fasten the cage shut. "Now, sleep."  
  
The magicks take hold before Unukalhai can open his mouth to protest again. Elidibus wraps the spell with several more layers of obfuscation, layer upon layer of concealments to keep the boy from being easily found. He disguises Unukalhai's aether underneath his own, and then his own beneath the colors of the rift. Once everything is tightly bound together, he tucks the entire spell into a pocket of invisibility, intent on fetching the boy out at the next convenient opportunity.  
  
Then, he forgets.

* * *

A few thousand years pass.  
  
Then a few more.  
  
Emet-Selch builds an advanced civilization of sapient spiders on the Eighth, complaining the entire time about Altima's reluctance to do it on her own. Lahabrea burns them all down. As the Sundered fail and fall, the Convocation survivors sluggishly regroup. They parcel out the shards and then redistribute them, reassigning fresh partnerships and new tasks to try and keep morale high.  
  
Elidibus watches them all, steering them along the fumbling path to redemption. The centuries have begun to exact a steep cost, even for beings who have known nothing else save immortality. An unrelenting weariness has settled over their collective souls, no less lethal than that of Hydaelyn's enervation itself, and he must keep their spirits rallied long enough to see their home rebuilt.   
  
It is a great deal of labor, trying to encourage the few of them that are left. He plays their enemy when they need the spur; he is their ally when they lack any other courage to push them forward, cursing and weeping over the burdens that Zodiark asks of them.   
  
There is a nagging tickle in the back of his mind, something he is neglecting to take care of -- but there are many such feelings, and they are all easily dismissed.

* * *

He comes across Unukalhai again entirely by accident.  
  
It is shortly after the Twelfth has been rejoined, and they are all celebrating for it; even Igeyorhm, in her own way, though she is still subdued and wary of the sheer concept of victory. The Fifth might have been a fluke, after all. But two shards Rejoined is enough to move from hypothesis to methodology, and now they can all resume their independent labors, following a tested and reliable strategy.  
  
Relieved, Elidibus wanders back into his own corners of the rift, allowing the others to unwind and relax together or separately as they see fit. It had been particularly draining this time to keep everyone focused; in the silence, at least, he can rest for a while, and worry about no one save himself.   
  
It is there that he comes across a curious abnormality: little more than a bump of energy in the rift, like a lump of a shirt left beneath one's blankets. Intrigued, he runs his fingers across it before they catch on the sense of a familiar cipher. He tugs, and discovers more.   
  
It is his spell. _He_ wrought this.   
  
Uneasy now, Elidibus wrenches off layer after layer of the magicks, tearing away each component until the energies of the outer shrouds dissipate completely, and the pale, unconscious body of a young child is revealed before him.   
  
He blinks.   
  
_Unukalhai._  
  
Cold horror jolts through Elidibus's blood as the memories return, disjointed and jumbled and incomplete. The remaining spells are intact, thankfully. No one else had discovered the boy. If Elidibus had not come for him, Unukalhai might have slept forever, wrapped in a never-ending stasis. Unfound, unknown -- until, perhaps the magic atrophied and he died in the rift without ever waking, his soul lost like the rest of his shard.   
  
But Unukalhai rouses easily enough once the remaining magicks are dispelled, showing no sign that his consciousness has eroded over the decades. Centuries. Millennia. Elidibus does not remember. He _does not remember_ , and he cannot even entirely recall how he used to speak with Unukalhai before in the past, or how they once interacted.  
  
"Master?" the boy asks blearily. Elidibus watches him gingerly stir, finger by finger, limb by limb, muscles remembering their purpose once more and the bones they are attached to. "How... long have I slept?"  
  
Only when Unukalhai sits up properly and starts to paw the hair out of his eyes does Elidibus finally relax, assured that there has been no lasting harm.   
  
"Not long," he lies. "Not long at all."

* * *

He does not allow himself the same mistake again.   
  
It is well enough impossible to track time from shard to shard, and rift to Source. Elidibus has more than enough futilities already to manage. Instead, he sets timepieces for himself that count in increments of centuries, subtle devices of crystal and gold that he requests tactfully from Emmerololth, who has always had a knack for such detail work. She looks at him quizzically for the request, but turns her skills with a shrug to the task, producing decorations of interlocking spheres that measure the bells that only Elidibus himself has directly passed through, a record of his personal years.   
  
The tally marks add up, changing bells into suns, suns into moons. Elidibus does his best to retain them. He checks the devices regularly, cunningly designed as mere baubles on his robes, and he tries -- very hard -- not to forget their intended purpose whenever he comes across them in his possessions.  
  
In matters of both magic and aetheric theory, Unukalhai shows promise as a student. He is quick enough to pursue the abstract, grasping the principles of elemental balance in how it can be both manipulated and healed on a vast scale, earthquakes on one continent upending the aspects of another. But the boy remains docile, his spirit willing to live from sun to sun, and little more. He breathes by rote. He memorizes only what he is told, and does not read ahead in his lesson books. A lifetime of endless war has stifled his curiosity: a natural enough reaction when everything familiar and unfamiliar will kill you in equal measure.  
  
The boy refuses to die -- but he will not live, either.  
  
Like his jadedness, Unukalhai's diligence is developed well beyond others of his mortal years. He has already learned the most important lessons: namely, those of corruption and influence, of watching the very people you counted on as protectors now being the ones to turn into monsters, and go for your throat. It lends Unukalhai a maturity fitting an adult several times his age -- but also a despair, having seen to the very bottom of good and evil, and discovering that there is no discernable difference between the two.   
  
In its place is left a hollowness that allows plenty of room for something new to bloom -- but there is no seed to sprout.   
  
In an effort to germinate something, _anything_ , Elidibus continues to bring the boy to different shards, finding every excuse to explore the stars yet remaining. They observe cities built from marble and glass, whose walls chime with every noontime breeze. They visit caverns deep underground where the inhabitants ride giant moles for steeds. Flowers bob above their heads, their stalks as thick as the columns of Amaurot itself, and Elidibus waits uselessly to see if anything might call to the boy. He does not remember any particular sights from the Thirteenth, and he does not wish to recreate them -- it would be needlessly cruel to Igeyorhm to ask her, and doubly so to throw a recreation at Unukalhai simply to see if it quickens anything with the boy's soul.  
  
Perhaps later, if he must. Before Elidibus must accept destroying him.  
  
In the meantime, Unukalhai takes to one landscape as easily as another. He works through the exhausting practice of detecting and manipulating ley lines until he can draw a circle that doesn't wobble precariously like an unbalanced plate, and Elidibus shows him ways to improve his concentration, polishing up the rudimentary skills that the boy had as a Warrior of Light. There were no proper teachers in the last days of the Thirteenth, and it shows in the crude, clumsy fashion that Unukalhai uses to manipulate aether, grabbing at it like wads of clay to fling at his enemies. He has never learned spells for the sheer beauty of them. Magic has only ever been a skill used for killing.  
  
They study other fields as well: elemental theory, polarities of Astral and Umbral, and the influences of Darkness and Light. Unukalhai takes all of his lectures without protest. His education is pitifully sparse. He learns his letters, stumbling into the language of the Source now that the Thirteenth has no written records worth salvaging. He learns of other principles too, basic concepts such as thermodynamic equilibrium and elemental constants -- matters which had been skipped over in favor of learning how to survive in the wilderness, and keep from dying of exposure.  
  
Elidibus brings the occasional volume of literature with him when he wakes the boy: poetry, legends, stories of epic conquerors who had single-handedly turned back exaggerated armies before becoming repurposed as cultural propaganda. All are tools he has used with admirable results in the past. They, too, are tested and proven strategies.  
  
Unukalhai reads each one politely, paying enough attention that he passes being tested on the material, but he recites them back as indifferently as any other tale.  
  
Offered no other inspiration, Elidibus resorts to idle conversation instead.  
  
"You have never known a world without despair," he observes, tossing aside his inkpen during their inscription practice. "Can you not imagine how to live in a world of peace, should you achieve it one day? That you might have a place in it?"  
  
Unukalhai does not lift his gaze from the pages spread before him on the table. "I most likely do not belong in such a world, master," he says mildly. "Forgive me."  
  
"Mayhap you have simply not had a chance to envision it yet." That, surely, must be the cause of Unukalhai's lack of hope: an atrophied imagination. "There are numerous other regions we may visit. Is there one which you have felt any particular connection to yet?"  
  
But the boy only shakes his head, dutifully resuming penning another line of intricate calligraphy. "None, master. They are all the same."  
  
Apart from a few sparse comments, the boy never speaks of his home. Elidibus does not ask him. All the information he might need, he has already gleaned from Igeyorhm's reports and his own observations; there is nothing left of interest in the Thirteenth's past.   
  
It holds little interest for Unukalhai as well, it seems. The boy skirts the topic like a festering corpse on the road. He exhibits every sign of willingness to let his own past become forgotten, transforming it into the simplest of motivations for an overarching goal -- _I lost my shard, our champions doomed us._ The details are erased into obscurity. None of them hold significance any longer.  
  
Where he grew up. The location of his birth town. The names of his family. If he even had family at all.  
  
The only thing left -- the only thing that _matters_ \-- is his mission, and that is a thing that Elidibus can at least understand.

* * *

He becomes so accustomed to Unukalhai's tractability that one day, when the boy speaks up on his own accord, Elidibus can only stare until Unukalhai is forced to repeat his question. "Pardon me master, but may I have a change of clothes?"  
  
The request is remarkable for the sheer fact that it exists at all. Elidibus has tolerated how the boy has dutifully washed his clothing in the streams they have passed, pulling on his tattered robes before they are fully dry; Unukalhai has been painstaking in the care of his own garments, as befits one who has only ever owned a single set of clothes at a time. It is unexpected for the boy to wish a second pair, but perhaps the fallen Warrior is developing a greed for fineries after all.   
  
He clears his throat, trying to regain his composure as if it had never slipped at all. "What did you have in mind?"  
  
Unukalhai glances down, plucking at a fold of his robes while being careful not to distress the fabric. "It does not feel right to wear clothes from my homeland. Not... not anymore. May I -- may I have robes as you do, master?"  
  
Of all the selections that Unukalhai could have made, this one is so cryptic as to be laughable. It is hardly as if the boy can pretend to be an actual Ascian, even if he dresses as one -- that, and there is no purpose in trying to disguise himself as one before the sundered races. Elidibus's people can do a fair enough job of ruining their reputations on their own. "And why, pray tell, would you wish to look like me?"  
  
Unukalhai turns his gaze back up. "Why not?" the boy responds bleakly, and in his eyes, there is a hint of rage so old that he must have carried it for years before he even knew what to call it. "Your side _won_. What better example do I have to emulate?"  
  
Any further protest ebbs away in Elidibus's throat, a casualty of the same pragmatism.  
  
_What indeed_ , he thinks.  
  
Yet even as he weaves the outfit into existence with a few brisk sweeps of his hand, Elidibus finds himself frowning. He cannot advise the boy on ideals to model a future upon. The only thing Elidibus knows how to do is to detach himself from his surroundings, to wander blindly with the barest connection of one moment to the next. It is a chronology that he has inflicted unhesitatingly upon this fallen Warrior, who knows no calendar now save the one that Elidibus binds him to: sleeping in stasis for eon upon eon, taken further away from his past and all moorings in time.  
  
No matter how he reasons it, Unukalhai is merely delaying the inevitable. He cannot stay in the rift forever and avoid the war between Zodiark and Hydaelyn. Elidibus already knows how such a course will end.  
  
At some point, Elidibus will leave, and leave the boy behind.

* * *

It should not make a difference, of course. Elidibus has used more heroes than he can count by now, telling them stories that they want to hear, as well as stories they do not. Some of them are true. Most are conveniently up for debate. He makes up outlandish lies that hold no basis in reality, and watches mortals gladly turn away from facts to embrace such deceptions, feasting on their own self-righteousness and paranoia. Elidibus has never hesitated with any of them before. Only the final outcomes have any importance.  
  
The boy grows in strength and scholarship both -- but also in determination, the implacable grimness of his demeanor only hardening further each time he wakes. He takes to his new mask as if it is a shield, sliding it on hastily whenever he sees Elidibus wearing one, and yanking it just as rapidly off whenever it is absent. The sparse lines of his new robes are a far cry from the styles of the Thirteenth in the last days of their civilizations -- motleys of black and white and crimson, speckled gold and often patched together from scraps of other clothing, feathered hats and ragged sandals -- and offer him no spare crystals to use as a reservoir of power, unlike his previous garb.   
  
But there is a flicker of enthusiasm about his behavior now that was absent before, and that -- Elidibus reminds himself -- is _all_ that matters.   
  
If a change of clothing is all that Unukalhai needed, then Elidibus will provide it. If he is to teach the boy decent aetheric control, then he will do so. If Unukalhai merely needs an example of proper behavior to gravitate towards -- then Elidibus can do that as well, he supposes. Even if he does not understand _why_ his pupil has suddenly renewed his determination, he does not have to care.  
  
He reminds himself of this as he stands beside his protégé, seeing their twin reflections glimmering in the crystals and mirrors that they pass. The robes are not the same. The mask is different. But it is still like having another Ascian at his side, one of his own people to protect -- and one of his own people to eventually fail.

* * *

He is not the only one who notices the similarities between himself and his student.  
  
"If you wished a clone," Emet-Selch comments dryly the next time Elidibus crosses paths with him, attending a ragged Convocation meeting where half their members are still dead, "you need only have _asked_ me, Elidibus. I would have been happy to whip up a puppet or three for you to play with."  
  
Elidibus stares at him, uncertain of what to protest first. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Those white robes, that quaint little mask! Oh, _come_ now, Elidibus!" Emet-Selch tacks on with fond exasperation. He spreads his arms as if the whole thing is a grand jest, crafted lovingly for all their entertainment. "I'll not break your newest toy. 'Twould be too much like killing _you_ back when you first joined the Convocation."  
  
For a long moment, Elidibus cannot think. He had known of the parallels. He had not expected them to be so obvious to anyone else.   
  
"Yes," he responds distantly. "I suppose it would be, indeed."   
  
He pushes through the daze of his thoughts, now fearing a different course. Emet-Selch's tone of voice is a dangerous one. It is playful, merry: a rare display of light-heartedness from a man who has little enough of joy in his life these days. It is the song of a person who has just found an unexpected amusement dropped squarely in his lap after a long drought -- and Elidibus is fully aware of the sort of games his kin enjoy most these days.  
  
If the rest of the Convocation takes too much of an interest in the boy, it would be best if Elidibus kills Unukalhai himself.  
  
"'Tis an affection on the child's part," he says dismissively, just in case any other Ascians are listening. "His adoration is useful. It keeps him in line."  
  
Emet-Selch flaps a hand tolerantly, and Elidibus promptly changes the subject to the elemental balances of the Tenth, veering far closer to Ice than its intended alignment of Water.  
  
All is quiet throughout the rest of his meeting. The destruction of the Tenth unfolds as expected. They are one step closer to their god reborn, with six Ardors as their trophies.  
  
But after Elidibus returns to his own affairs, he watches how carefully Unukalhai imitates him -- a deliberate mimicry on far more levels than he realized, now that Elidibus knows what to look for. He notes how often the boy glances to him before taking action on the shards. He sees the guarded way with which Unukalhai interacts with the other mortals they visit, as if he knows he will only be with them temporarily, a passing guest to forget the very next morning.  
  
He has taught the boy more than simply magicks. Rather than becoming attached to the shards, claiming one of them as his new preferred home, Unukalhai has learned how to let go of everything else instead. His mask is expressionless. His robes, plain and unmarked. He has welcomed his new name. He has learned -- even unconsciously -- to accept his role as a transient, temporary shadow in the corners of others' lives, an impermanent thing that will vanish when everything is over. To care nothing for his own identity -- only for what he can accomplish in pursuit of his goals.  
  
But to be like Elidibus is to have no future, in the end. Once Zodiark has returned, Elidibus will make certain his people are at peace once more -- and then, he will go back to his god and abandon his own existence. If he fails somehow and Hydaelyn wins, She will have even less mercy than that.   
  
It is a road that can lead nowhere. Oblivion waits at both ends; it will swallow Unukalhai as surely as the Darkness has taken the Thirteenth. Elidibus is dragging the boy into nothingness behind him, where not even the promise of Zodiark's rebirth can offer comfort. Where Elidibus will surely forget everything about Unukalhai as well, unable to keep his own memory from continuing to degrade.  
  
It is only a matter of time.  
  
In the end, it may simply be a question of who forgets faster: Elidibus, or Unukalhai himself.

* * *

During their next outing, he gives no indication of his intentions. They travel to the Ninth, testing Unukalhai's spellcraft; the boy performs admirably, handling multiple targets without the same loss of aim as his earlier efforts. It is a decent milestone of growth. Elidibus is pleased, though he does little to reveal it apart from a faint smile of approval.  
  
Unukalhai flushes with pride when he spots it, and then takes out five more markers with a thunder spell.  
  
But their visit together inevitably draws to a close, and they return to the rift after Unukalhai has run through a demonstration of all his spells and recited back a fresh chapter of Allagan history. He gets the majority of the points correct; Elidibus marks his errors with an admonition to study better during their next session. Then they are done, and Unukalhai obediently lines his feet up and stands perfectly straight, preparing himself to be sent back into stasis again.  
  
Elidibus draws the first circles automatically, watching the conduits of power link up in rippling arcs. "We should consider expanding your training," he suggests gruffly. For once, he allows his hands to hesitate over the magicks, pausing in each step before completing the necessary patterns. "Mayhap a short-term independent assignment on the Eleventh. Unless there is aught else which has caught your interest?"  
  
He expects an immediate denial, a shake of the boy's head. Yet the silence that meets Elidibus's question drags on long enough that he glances up, surprised at the delay. "Unukalhai?"  
  
Unukalhai looks equally nervous. He ducks his head, fidgeting uncharacteristically as he bites his lip. "I believe I have found something I wish to save after all, master."  
  
Startled -- he must have missed signs of Unukalhai engaging with the locals on the Ninth -- Elidibus tries to ignore the strange tightening of his chest. Merely surprise, of course; he had known this day would come. He had been the one encouraging it, after all. Unukalhai is no different from any of the other fallen Warriors Elidibus has used; the boy has simply taken longer to leave him. "Very well. May I ask what?"  
  
"You, master."  
  
The spells slip through Elidibus's nerveless fingers; only by reflex does he catch the energies before they manifest fully as monsters, his concentration foundering as he rapidly nullifies his own magicks lest his unconscious mind turn them into a menagerie of horror. "What?"  
  
Unaware of his shock, Unukalhai continues speaking, building more confidence with every word. "You number among the Ascians, and I care not if _they_ survive. But there _must_ be a way to save both you _and_ all the reflections of the Source." He makes a resolute nod, a stamp of his foot that scuffs the ground. "I will protect the shards. And I will protect _you_ as well, in the process."  
  
The sheer impossibility of such a promise finally breaks through Elidibus's paralysis. Rather than wrestle with the influx of unformed magicks, he dumps the excess into the rift in a shower of flame, explosions that streak across the darkness.   
  
"And what exactly do you imagine _you_ can protect _me_ from," he sneers; the cold contempt in his voice is more than deserved. "I have bested creatures which could have annihilated you with a glance. With a wave of my hand, I could unmake you from reality itself. In what paltry manner do you think I could use _your_ help?"  
  
Unukalhai is at least intelligent enough not to deny the truth. "I don't know yet, master," he admits stubbornly. His hands have balled into fists. "But if I stay beside you, I know I will find a way. I believe I will. I have _faith_."  
  
It is foolishness, all of it. _All_ of it. But in the boy's soul -- at last, after countless centuries spent in darkness -- there is a gleam of hope that spins itself from a pinprick into an outright blaze, an alertness in his lavender eyes that brightens them after being so long dulled by detachment. An inspiration which only grows stronger and stronger despite every denial arrayed against it, into a true prayer for salvation -- directed towards a soul which is destined for dissolution, no matter which side triumphs.   
  
Elidibus should rejoice. _This_ is exactly what he has been waiting for all along. It would be trivial to lure Unukalhai into whatever path Elidibus needs now, dangling the false promise of hidden knowledge and redemption before him, nurturing the boy's wish into an obsession that will drive him all the more maniacally the longer he fails it. Such a quest will turn the boy even more hollow through the years, following obediently along at his chosen master's side, his face as placid as his mask. Emotionless and uncaring of all matters, save for a fruitless dream that will only crumble once he finally thinks to grasp it.   
  
It will devour the boy completely, even more than the loss of his home. It will erode his soul along with his mind, until one day, Unukalhai may no longer be conscious of anything else.  
  
Yet as he looks down at his pupil, Elidibus can only see an echo of himself standing there -- as if he is Emet-Selch on a day eons past, regarding the newest member of the Convocation. The simpler mask of an Amaurotine. White robes that are as humble as any citizen. The smaller stature of one who is very young, but also very brave.   
  
But there is no reason to save Elidibus. Like the Thirteenth, there is nothing left _to_ save. Only despair awaits in Unukalhai's future. Elidibus is the shape of his doom.  
  
It is, he thinks distantly -- as comets tear through the blackness of the rift around them, screaming destruction with weeping, fanged mouths -- a very terrible way to die, indeed.  
  
"Unukalhai," he says -- a name which has been wrought by Asican hands as well, like everything else about the boy's newfound life. "We will discuss this again at our next meeting. Until then, it is time for you to sleep for a while."  
  
Unukalhai stops shifting his feet, standing up straight once more at the implied command. He lets his hands fall to his sides, agitation dismissed as he willingly follows orders instead.  
  
"Yes, master," the boy replies, gazing up at him trustingly. "I will welcome you upon your return."

* * *

He finds the proper place to use Unukalhai exactly where he does not expect it, in what would normally be a wasteful decision: on the Source among the very forces of Hydaelyn Herself, a nest of vipers to send his disciple into. A rare conjunction of influences are in play, thanks to the combination of Garlemald and Ishgard both turning their eyes towards Azys Lla. Chances of the balance tipping are higher than even Elidibus prefers. This particular task can guide Unukalhai and keep the boy focused -- and, most importantly, it will give the Scions of the Seventh Dawn sufficient reason to keep their newest guest alive as well, without executing him the moment they realize he is an Ascian agent.   
  
It is not the best outcome. But there will never _be_ a perfect situation, not even if Elidibus waits longer, because time -- like it or not -- is running out.   
  
Once this is accomplished, then the boy will be left upon the Source, excised from Ascian control. Even if he dies there, his spirit will be where it belongs. The Lifestream will rejoin him to the remainder of his soul through the cycle of rebirth, restored to his true home at last.  
  
Safer than lingering in the rift. Safer than being forgotten somewhere, from following a path of emptiness and futility, following along behind a person who can give nothing back.   
  
Elidibus announces the decision hastily, before he can give himself any time to doubt. They are perched on one of the crystal-studded hills of Mor Dhona, overlooking the road leading towards Revenant's Toll. A slow trail of adventurers moves between it and Saint Coinach's Find. Unukalhai squints at them, still yawning from being rustled out of sleep and dragged to the Source without any real time to question.   
  
"I will be sending you to the Scions," Elidibus announces, taking care to sound as indifferent about the matter as possible. "We have spoken about the Warring Triad before. I should _hope_ you were attentive on the subject. 'Tis their threat which you must warn the Scions about, lest the eikons continue to wake."  
  
Unukalhai is quick to identify the stakes, snapping to attention as he evaluates the forces at hand. "The Scions of the Seventh Dawn remain an equal threat as well, correct?" He looks up to Elidibus, eager for any sign of approval. "They tip things too far towards the course of Light."   
  
Elidibus makes a clipped nod. "That will be why you are there," he claims. "Mankind summons Primals with the carelessness of a child plucking flowers from the soil, content only in their hands being full. Each time these Scions slay one, they merely encourage another. You must watch them for me. Remind them of balance. Learn them and know them. Earn their trust so that they will listen to you, when you caution them for moderation."  
  
With that, he turns, and sets a hand firmly on the boy's shoulder. " _You_ are the one I trust with this vital duty, Unukalhai. I place them in your care."  
  
The words taste more bitter than he expects. Manipulating his companions has become natural by now; mortal pawns, even more so. It has never felt like a pool of bile in his mouth before, trickling down his throat and souring his belly with each swallow.  
  
Reasonably enough, Unukalhai evaluates the odds being presented. "Will they not reject me? If I give them no cause for trust, I doubt they will allow me into their confidence."   
  
Far below them, a chocobo-driven cart trudges its way slowly through North Silvertear. The dawn is coming stronger now, a lip of light upon the horizon that blisters the crystal outcroppings with its radiance. "It is acceptable if you are sincere in your friendship with them. The goal, after all, is to teach them moderation. I will not condemn you if you must become their ally in truth to accomplish this."  
  
Judging from how the boy's shoulders go slack as he exhales in relief, he had feared exactly that. "Thank you, master." His eyes flick down to the road, and then back up to Elidibus. "Will you... will you come for me soon?"  
  
_Never again_ , Elidibus thinks -- but he lets his mask shadow his eyes, and his mouth to be an echo of his mask.  
  
"I will," he lies. "Soon."  
  
With that, he rubs the boy's shoulder as if he could impart some manner of warmth with it -- some strength, some additional vitality that might protect Unukalhai in the days to come. "Now, go. Do not lose hope," he orders firmly. "Remember to sustain your aether with sufficient food and drink. And sleep -- _proper_ sleep, this time. You may need some practice to regain the habit. And... Mor Dhona is cold at night, Unukalhai. Do not take ill. I will not be there to heal you, should you become injured."  
  
Already, it seems as if he has said too much. Despite that, none of it is nearly enough -- he _cannot_ allow Unukalhai to depart yet, not when it feels as if there is still something remaining in the back of his mind, one last warning or piece of advice he must offer. If only he could remember what it might be. Some platitude, some manipulation. Something that he can only share _now_ , when there will be no other opportunity to speak it.  
  
But he runs dry of words before he can find it, and there is only so long that he can regard the boy in silence. Interpreting the quiet as a sign that his instructions are complete, Unukalhai nods, and Elidibus forces himself to let go.  
  
The boy ducks his head, gathering his courage as he picks out the first few steps down the hillside. He stumbles along the steep incline, hauling up his robes to keep from tripping over them, using his staff to brace himself whenever the footing crumbles.  
  
Elidibus watches the small dot of white reach ground safely, and then turn once to lift its hand towards him: a final farewell, though Unukalhai does not know it.  
  
Even then, Elidibus lingers. Sunlight finishes cresting over the hills, fracturing itself in manifold rainbows through the crystals. The tiny figure grows more and more distant as it walks towards the town, mingling with the morning travelers. It does not matter how thick the crowd becomes. To his eyes, the color of the boy's soul shines bright beyond them all.   
  
He waits and watches, until -- at last -- Unukalhai passes through the gates to Mor Dhona, vanishing from Elidibus's sight, and then he is gone.  
  



End file.
